There is no “right” way to experience grief and loss. We each move through it in different ways. Sometimes it feels like a labyrinth in our soul that twists and turns, seeming endless. Even in these moments we find comfort and hope in the love of our Creator and in his creation that speaks words of life. My friend, Kim Wilaniskis experienced one of these sacred moments, while grieving the loss of her son a few years ago and agreed to share it with us. Kim writes:
Years ago, back in 2023, I had an encounter with a juvenile coyote. I wrote about it that day in my journal, in the raw and unfiltered way journals hold our first thoughts. On the page, I found myself speaking to the animal, even imagining for a moment that he might be my son visiting from beyond. At the time, I knew the moment was significant and it lived quietly in me for years. Returning to it now, I can see that grief does not change in an instant. It shifts slowly, like a mountain moving over time. Perhaps faith works the same way. What follows is one of those moments.
I run away when the loneliness becomes too much to bear. It seems counterintuitive to seek solitude when you are overwhelmingly lonely, but the feeling of being invisible around people is a pain that cuts me to the core. So, I run. I have a place to retreat to when the world becomes too loud and demanding. I thank God for this space every time I pull into the long driveway that takes me up the ridge. It is wild and beautiful and at times frightening. I drive to our barn that sits near the back of the ridge, following the eight-foot fence that runs along the property line. Today, the quiet is almost deafening. My aloneness feels like it has a presence, and I offer it a chair beside me. I settle in and allow the solitude to wrap itself around me. As it always does at first, it feels foreign, like I should be doing instead of being. Then slowly I get into the rhythm of my breath and time feels as if it stands still. I pull out my journal and begin to write.
Movement out of the corner of my eye startles me out of my prayer. A juvenile coyote is on the other side of the fence, scratching his ear. He looks up at me and sees me seeing him, then turns and is swallowed up by the forest. I settle back in, pen in hand, and continue my dialogue with God in my journal. I am writing about how lonely the world feels, how I long for connection with something or someone. I cannot seem to get back into the flow of the world after losing my child. It has been many years, and people expect me to return to who I was. I cannot find my way back to the old me. Believe me, I miss her as much as anyone. I pour all of it onto the pages, tears flowing, heart aching. Something make me look up, a sound maybe. The young coyote has returned to the fence line. This time he allows our gazes to meet. He is young, not far from being a pup. I wonder if he is still with his mother. I wonder if he is looking for her, or maybe she is gone. Maybe we are two lost souls grieving our loved ones- he, his mother and me, my son.
My imagination starts to take flight, for this is what writers do. They tell themselves stories. Maybe it is a sign, possibly from my son. The fence divides us; we are separate and yet I feel a connection. “Do you have a message for me?” I ask. He cocks his head slightly at the sound of my voice. “Could I imagine that you are my son visiting from beyond to comfort his grieving mother?” “Ryan?” I sob, and it hangs in the humid air between us. A gut-wrenching sadness overtakes me, and the animal watches me become undone. “Go away,” I yell, stomping my feet. “I cannot even hope that you are Ryan; it hurts too much. You are nothing but a wild animal and I am a broken old woman.” He remains frozen in his spot, witnessing it all. I lower my head and allow it all to pour out of me.
When my tears subside, I lift my head, and the coyote is gone. Something about this moment feels holy, and I need help digesting the experience. I sink back into my chair and reach for my journal. My pen presses my prayer onto the page: “Forgive me, Lord, for my unbelief. Help me with my lack of faith.”
“What is the coyote’s name?” The question forms as I write. “Give it a rightful name.”
“Ryan,” I write with authority.
The animal was not my son, I know that. But in my imagination, the animal represented Ryan, and I was able to express my anguish at losing him. My imagination gave me a way to say goodbye. Goodbye to someone I love and goodbye to the sadness that has clouded my world for so long. I held onto that sadness as if letting it go would betray my son. But my imagination did not loosen my grip on reality; it helped me loosen my grip on despair. I needed something or someone to receive my sorrow and to witness it.
“Goodbye, Ryan.”
My heart breaks, my world shifts, and I am released from the strong grip of grief. It no longer holds me; now I hold it. My imagination pushes me through the membrane of grief that has cocooned me for years, and a lone coyote pup witnesses my rebirth.
I return to my journal and flip the page. I write my son’s name. And then, for the first time, I write goodbye. I see it on the page. It is real. It is permanent.
I know now that mountains do not move all at once. They shift in the dark, quietly, over years, and you only discover the distance traveled when you look back at where you once stood. Maybe that is enough. Maybe that is everything. Maybe that is faith.
Thank you Kim for sharing this sacred moment of healing with us.
Continue the Pursuit,
Denise
